David Dalglish - Blood of the Underworld

“I’m glad you are alive,” he said, swinging his sword in wide arcs so Haern had to remain on the defensive. A bolt of fire shot in from Tarlak, but it winked out of existence, not even giving Nicholas pause. “At least you make this interesting. You even made me bleed.”

Haern ducked underneath a swing, then tried to roll to one side. Nicholas predicted the maneuver, and Haern screamed as a heavy boot slammed into his stomach. His old wound tore. It was like being stabbed all over again. He tried to move, to keep going, but his body convulsed against his wishes, doubling over amid his cries of pain. Nicholas’s sword lifted, but a heavy brick slammed into his shoulder before he could swing. Startled, Nicholas fell back as two more flew in, one striking his sword, the other his chest.

“Don’t like magic, eh?” Tarlak said, still hiding on the far side of the room. “How about something more real?”

More stones dislodged from the walls, held in the wizard’s mental grip. They flew at Nicholas, and though the magic propelling them died when nearing the man, it did not remove the natural momentum of the stone. Nicholas dove side to side, flinging his sword about to help block. Upon reaching a wall he leapt into it and kicked off into a dive straight at the wizard.

And that’s when Tarlak lifted the couch into the air and swatted Nicholas with it as if he were a bug.

“Need some help here,” Tarlak shouted as he flung more chairs and stones at Nicholas. Haern saw that the wizard was losing strength, the velocity of each one considerably slower than the last. Struggling to his feet, he staggered into a run. Nicholas caught one of the slower stones, flung it straight back at Tarlak. It struck his forehead, and with a soft gasp the wizard slumped against the wall, blood trickling down his face and neck. Haern ignored it, couldn’t afford to worry about the fate of his friend. Pushing through the wall of agony, he thrust for Nicholas’s stomach.

Too slow. Nicholas parried the sabers, then stepped in so that his elbow collided with Haern’s throat. He fell gasping, and the hard stone below him jarred his bleeding side further.

“I see why your band was such trouble,” Nicholas said, standing over him. Blood dripped from his cut side, and his tattooed skin was a mess of bruises. “But not any longer.”

He jerked forward, then collapsed to his knees as Brug’s daggers pierced his back in a flurry of punches.

“Why-”

He shoved his daggers together into Nicholas’s lower back.

“-does everyone-”

Twisted them left, then right.

“-always-”

Yanking them free, he clubbed Nicholas across the head.

“-ignore me?”

Nicholas collapsed to the ground in a dead heap. Brug stood over him, whole body shuddering as he gasped in air. He kicked the corpse with his armored foot.

“Stupid bastard,” grumbled Brug.

Haern laughed where he lay, despite the pain it caused. Delysia was soon there, holy light shining on her hands.

“You’re an angel, Del,” Haern said, nearly delirious from the pain.

“I’m all right,” Tarlak said, staggering to his feet, having to hold onto an upended couch beside him to stay balanced. With glazed eyes he looked about the room, then grunted. “We need a new door.”

“Who was that?” Delysia asked as the healing light poured into Haern’s wounds. Haern did his best to relax, and he let his sabers go limp in his hands.

“Nicholas Bloodcraft,” Haern mumbled. “He said it pretty clearly.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

“But that’s all that matters,” Tarlak said, walking unsteadily about his tower, inspecting the damage both he and Nicholas had caused. “The Bloodcrafts are a bunch of mercenaries from Mordan. They’re ruthless, powerful, and apparently have terrible taste in fashion.”

“You mean there’s more than one like him?” Brug asked, giving the corpse another kick for good measure.

Delysia kissed Haern on the cheek, then went to her brother. When she tried to inspect the growing bruise on his forehead, he gently pushed her away.

“I’ll be fine,” he said. “And yeah, there’s more than one. If what I’ve heard is true, there’s always four.”

Haern scooted until he could sit with his back against a wall. Leaning his head against the cold stone, he watched as Tarlak knelt beside the corpse and inspected the sword. With a frown, he grabbed the crystal in the hilt and carefully twisted it until it broke free. When he lifted it up, Haern saw that it had turned gray in color.

“A damn expensive enchantment,” Tarlak said, peering at it. “Banishes all magic in the area, at least until the crystal’s thoroughly filled.” He looked at Nicholas’s body, and after a thought, pulled off the cloak, then removed his shirt as well. Tattooed all across the body were hundreds of runes, some still shining a soft blue, others having faded down to just black ink. Noticing this, Tarlak grunted.

“Let’s see, strength, more strength, speed, a few blade enchantments, here’s one for balance…these tattoos were impervious to the effects of the crystal. He banished all magic about him except for his own.”

“Clever,” Haern said.

“I’d call it cheating,” Tarlak muttered.

“Will the others be like him?” Delysia asked, cleaning off Haern’s blood from her hands.

“I don’t know,” Tarlak said. “But someone wants us dead, and they brought out the best. We need to be careful. If there’s more of the Bloodcrafts here, we’re all in severe danger.”

“If they’re here, why aren’t they…well, here?” asked Brug.

“Again, I don’t know.” Tarlak chuckled. “But we might not be their only target in Veldaren. If so, I feel bad for the other sorry bastards they’re after.”

“Great,” Haern said, closing his eyes. It suddenly felt like a perfect time for him to sleep, his pain ebbing away and his headaches returning. The last thing he wanted to think about was more frighteningly powerful men running about his city, not to mention whoever it was that had brought the expensive mercenaries to bear against them.

“Just…great.”

Half a mile outside the walls of Veldaren, Grayson inspected his three wagons, particularly their cargo. All around, his fellow Suns gathered, thirty in all. Each man and woman sported at least two earrings in their left ear, for he would consider no less for such an important job. The first few days would be crucial, not a time for amateurs.

“Not sure I’ve ever seen so much leaf in one place,” said Boggs, the hefty man in charge of operations in Grayson’s absence. He scratched at the dark stubble on his face, then sniffed. “How much we charging? Four silver? Five?”

“One,” Grayson said as he hopped down from the last of the wagons, inspection complete. Several others scoffed at that, and Boggs shook his head.

“That’s insane. This trip to Veldaren will cost us a fortune.”

“One silver on the first day,” Grayson repeated. “Two after that, until it’s all gone. The Trifect won’t be able to match, and neither will any of the guilds. We’re spending money now to make it all back later. Consider it an investment.”

“Don’t understand why we need to go through all this,” said Pierce. He was a thinner man, and often complained, but his ear was full of rings, and he’d proven himself one of the more adept killers for the Suns. “You hear what they say back home? Every guild here’s weak, full of pussies too frightened to go after a coin purse lying open on the ground. If we want territory, I say we just take it, and anyone who gives a shit can die.”

“I give a shit, Pierce,” Grayson said, grinning at the man. “You gonna kill me?”